


i'll kiss your open sores

by valleyofmidnight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Camboy Sam Winchester, Choking, Corruption, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Descriptions of murder, Drinking, First Kiss, Guilt, Incest, M/M, Maggots, Masturbation, Porn, Pre-Season/Series 01, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Somnophilia, Stanford Student Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violent Thoughts, Vomit, descriptions of dead bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25408027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofmidnight/pseuds/valleyofmidnight
Summary: Sometimes, untouchable as he was, Sam would crawl into your bed in the middle of the night, would wrap his awkward limbs around your chest and you would pretend to be asleep, because there was no way to be awake, with Sam that close, and to not end up hurting him. There was no way for you to not wind up with your hands buried in his stomach, covered in blood, ripping out his guts.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 36
Kudos: 40





	1. leave me coming all undone

**_"Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for the Lord God is my strength and my song; and he has become my salvation." Isaiah 12:2_ **

There's something _rotting_ inside you, something pulsing and raw. Funny enough, you only ever notice it, only ever feel the beat of its decomposition when you look at Sam. 

You were meant to be a guardian angel after the fire, a watching, non-threatening force, a force of protection, there when Sam needs you and invisible when he doesn't. But whenever you close your eyes, you see Sam spread out, or curled up and bloodied in some shrouded, psychoanalytical way. And it was hell, being stuck in motel after motel with him, who was doing _nothing_ to warrant this sort of hungry, venom-spit reaction. Who every now and again would catch you staring with a gruff, sour look on your face and ask, in all his innocence, what was wrong. That was your cue to look away, run your fingers through your crew cut while you thought about the way Sam had started growing his hair out even more than usual, had started tucking it behind his ears over and over again as some sort of anxious tic. You think about grabbing a fistful of it, dragging him out the room-- You think about ruining him yourself, beating the shit out of him, leaving him for dead. It wouldn't be out of hate or resentment, not quite. An expression of the ruin inside you, a way of communicating how fucked you felt.

You wouldn't dare say any of that out loud, and you wouldn't dare put a hand on Sam. As often as you thought about it, you could never hurt him, never see him pulled apart. You just dreamed about it, you just thought about it in passing, might've flashed in your mind around 4 am when Sam was asleep and you were jerking off into your palm. Thinking about biting into his shoulder, leaving bruises on that perfect pink skin of his. But none of that was real, none of it was actually hurting Sam.

Sam, in fact, was shockingly comfortable around you. He walked around in his boxers, worn out and long stained t-shirts. His legs and arms were building more muscle lately and you could note the day-by-day changes in them, could see the way Sam was standing a bit taller, walking a bit straighter. It drove you fucking nuts because he was still delicate. He still stumbled over his words when he got upset or excited, his cheeks still flushed with the same slick pink blood, he was still as fragile as ever. Sam didn't seem to realize the growth he was undergoing, how he was shifting from small and dorky to lanky, built more and more from sharp edges. He smiles and it gets caught in his teeth, and it gets caught under your skin. 

Though, he was still dorky. He still sat on the motel couch next to you and told you about the latest true crime case he was obsessed with, or the latest movie he had watched. He still stuck his nose in every book he could find, talked about going to college like he actually could, like escaping this life was easy, like it hadn't burrowed inside him and stained him the way it had you. Which you should've been happy about. If anyone deserved escaping the hunting life, it would be Sam. Precious, perfect, untouchable Sammy.

Sometimes, untouchable as he was, Sam would crawl into your bed in the middle of the night, would wrap his awkward limbs around your chest and you would pretend to be asleep, because there was no way to be awake, with Sam that close, and to not end up hurting him. There was no way for you to not wind up with your hands buried in his stomach, covered in blood, ripping out his guts. But you could never hurt him, you told yourself, you could never break him.

So you pretend to be asleep, you let him hold you, be held by you. You let him bury his face in your neck like he owns the skin there. You let him whisper things he would never say if it was day time and your eyes were open, things about his dreams of being a lawyer, of getting a wife, a dog, a picket fence; and you'd keep all his secrets even when each one opened a new scar, a new invitation for the maggots that infested you. 

When Dad starts trusting you more on cases, starts letting you hold the machete, the gun, the match, you start thinking of Sam's eyes during every decapitation, gunshot, immolation. You start thinking of Sam every time you see blood. You start thinking of running a knife up his sternum, digging it deep into his chest, about licking his blood off, covering your teeth in it. It shocks you stark awake every time. You start nipping your dad's whiskey. 

But, well-- how futile it is to think a broken man like you can do anything for someone like Sam Winchester when you can hardly keep yourself together when you're around him. How futile it is to believe a broken man deserves redemption, even if you could find a way to earn it. You don't deserve much at all.

Whenever you think of your future, it's alongside your dad, who greys, and wrinkles, and corrodes alongside you. You picture dying a bloody death, a horrible, secret death, a hunter's funeral. You're so fucking enthralled that Sam can picture anything else. It shows that he isn't cut from the same cloth, he isn't going to carry this curse onto another generation. And maybe that's why you think about hurting him and about him being hurt so often-- But you can't think about _that_ , the causes. Because that means it's _something_ that actually lives inside you, which makes you wanna puke out your guts, dig through the mess, and pinpoint the dead tissue, and clear it out. 

When you're drunk enough, and distracted enough, holding Sam, moving your head so your mouth is pressed against the nape of his neck-- it doesn't make you hate yourself like it normally does. It pulls you out of your body, removes you from context. Sam isn't your little brother (even though he is), and you don't think about him mutilated (even though you do), and you're just two bodies wrapped around each other, taking care of each other. It becomes mutual. Even though it isn't. You're not hurting him. You are. 

You're _ruining_ him. He starts moving closer and closer to you, starts kicking his feet up on your lap, starts leaning in and looking over your shoulder for any fucking reason. He grabs your wrist, pulls it over his shoulders, tucks in against you. And he says it's normal, that he just feels safe around you, that you're just his brother. You're ruining him, you can feel it. You're ruining the only good thing you've ever seen in this world. 

Which makes you push him away, makes him frown and pick at his fingernails, tuck his hair behind his ear. You ask to go on more cases, keep a gun on you at all times, start researching more and more creatures of the night. Just to get your mind off it, just to have something to do with your broken, fucked up, bleeding hands. Your dad is proud of you at least. He claps you on the shoulders, gives you a winning smile. It fucking sucks. Behind your eyes are images of the most precious thing in the world broken and irreparable, and he's praising you for the consequences.

You start checking your toast for mold every morning, start looking over your shoulder more. No one seemed to be watching you, but they _should've been._ Someone should've been responsible for you. You think about Natalie Wood, how she was scared of drowning her whole life, how she avoided water at all costs, only to get drunk enough to wander into the very thing she was repulsed by. Some people say it was a murder. You know all too well the pull of things you fear. 

You wish you would wind up bloated and floating on the water, skin discolored, peeling away like old paint. You wish you could be reborn as someone who didn't feel these sick compulsions, reborn as someone who found this sort of thing horrifying, someone who didn't want to be reborn. 

Neither you or Sam have been baptized ("We just never got around to it, and there was no one pushing us to, and really, we didn't even go to church that often. Your mom hated it.") so you know that original sin is still sticking to your soul, latched on like a parasite, and you like to think that maybe, in the universe where you were washed clean, things didn't go this way. Your mom wasn't burned alive, you weren't plagued by incestuous, homicidal thoughts. But you live in a world without water, without anything sacred (except whatever Sam is). 

And even Sam is ruining himself for you. 

You think about killing yourself more and more the closer he gets-- It washes over you like a tide, crashes into your lungs, drowns you. But you still get up every day, you can still move around, put your shaking hands around a bottle of 80 proof-- And the closer he gets, the sadder he looks-- _you're fucking ruining him_ \-- and so the harder you look away. And so the closer he gets. You're stuck in impossible cycles, cycles that make you wanna bash your fucking skull in, or break the bottle you nurse and dig it deep into your brain. You think about Natalie Wood crying out for help before she died. 

The tide, the wave, it grows every day. You wake up and you can feel the water inside your lungs, taste the salt on your tongue. You wake up and you can see Sam in his own bed (thank fuck he wasn't in yours), and he's wrapped up in his sheets, lily-white against skin-pale. You can't tell where he ends and the bed begins. You can't tell where you end and your necrosis starts. Terminal, surely, this should be the thing that kills you, washes you onto shore.

You get up and the water settles in your stomach; you can hear the call of the ocean as you walk across the room, your footsteps small and quiet on the stained carpet. This motel is one of the shittier ones you and Sam have been dropped into-- neglected and pulling apart as though a haunted space was not haunted bysomething else but by its own inner demons. You feel like a haunted house looking down at Sam, blushing even in his sleep, arms bent and pulled close to his chest, legs bent and spine curved. Fragile as an embryo. You want to break him. You want to show him your own theater of cruelty (though you don't know what you're trying to wake him up from; you hope to not wake him). 

You reach out, a horrible thing, and brush your hand against his forehead, a second horrible thing. You push his hair behind his ear (surely this would make him anxious, surely he'd be doing it on his own). You drag your fingers, twitching, aching, down the shell of his ear, down the line of his jaw, down his neck. You think very clearly about him being your little brother and all that means, all the long-as-time taboos against exactly this. And you think about the Greeks. You think about full blood. You think about bonds. 

Family to you has always been such a high priority. You were nothing if not a son, if not a brother. You are nothing if not Sam's brother. There was no way to pretend you were anything else, no way to not think about it. So you think about it. You twitch down his shoulder, and Sam doesn't wake up. He pushes his chin forward, his mouth parting silently. His lips are perfect cherry pink. You are a disgusting red. You are rotted. You are decomposing alive.

You lay your hands like a black-mass blessing on his side. He's wearing boxers, thank god, thin cotton ones from a five-pack. You push the sheet back, see how the fabric holds him, how it does little to sate you. This wasn't about being sated. If you wanted to take care of your cock, hard in the jeans you had fallen asleep in, you would go to the bathroom and send your cum down into the sewer. You wouldn't be feeling up your baby brother. Who still had his eyes closed. 

You pull your hand back, let your eyes fall down the curve of his body. He was getting more comfortable in it lately, started going on morning runs every now and again, would come back with sweat soaking through his shirt and you would think about licking it off him before you could stop yourself, thought about breaking into his post-run shower and pushing him against bathroom tile, or shoving his face, beautiful, into the toilet, filling his lungs with water worse than yours. 

Despite that, when you do touch him, like right now, ( _you can touch him)_ it’s gentle. You fall to your knees, lay your cheek on the edge of the bed, reach out and run your thumb across the side of his face. You think about choking him. You don't.

He opens his eyes then, and you think about running. You stay. His words are caught in his throat, but there's no way he only barely woke up. Meaning, he let you touch him, he let you push the sheets back and stare at him. He doesn't look scared. He doesn't look horrified at all. In fact, with all the innocence in the world, he smiles at you. He says your name. 

You kiss him. It's sweet, and bitter, and doesn't taste like blood at all. 

He returns it. 

You both pull away and there's a look in his eye like this was all he wanted, like you could restrain yourself after tasting him. He doesn't see this the way you do. He doesn't see this as the death that it is.

You shove him back on the bed, first pressing a forceful kiss against his sugar-pink lips, then pinning his hands above his head. It's fast, and he's whispering something that sounds like a question, but you're moving too quick to hear him. His underwear is around his ankles before he can beg you to stop. 

He doesn't know, he can't see the way this wasn't sudden, can't see that this is a dam breaking. He never saw the cracks. He's whining, his eyes closed tight and wet-- He's hard, though, you know that much. You think about giving him any sort of pleasure, making this easier for him, being gentle like you thought you could be, but you'll be damned if you make him enjoy something already so awful. _You're protecting him,_ you think as he screams under you. 

And you're grateful this is a shitty motel. You're grateful the walls are soaked in a haze of Marlboro longs and bourbon neat, soundproofing for this sort of thing. No one can hear him. And by the time he quiets down, you're comfortable inside him, you're sweating, you're rotting (god, you rot so quickly inside him). His moan, strangled and beaten, comes out without his permission, his throat, his body betraying him the way yours has betrayed you. You can see your reflection in his watering eyes. This is as close to baptism as you'll ever get, closest you'll ever get to salvation. 

You kiss him afterwards. He doesn't return it but that’s okay. And he doesn't look at you, so you have full reign to look at him all you'd like. You know what it's like to consume him. You no longer feel hungry. 


	2. doll steak, test meat

_**" The Lord sustains the humblebut casts the wicked to the ground." Psalm 147:6** _

Sam leaves just like he always said he would. He slams the door behind him, venom lodged in his throat, and you're left in the aftermath. 

Your dad blames you, and he's completely justified in doing so-- it _is_ your fault. Rotting, bleeding _you_. Sam got his scholarship to Stanford and because he was ruined, because _you_ had ruined him, removed the scales from his eyes, he leaves-- he looks back at you and sees a mangled corpse, sees a man rotting. He _sees_ you, and he leaves you and your pit, filled with stale spit and dirty blood. He leaves the motels, and the late nights, and the whispered apologies (you never stopped apologizing), and you know you're the reason. 

If you had been more careful-- If you hadn't done it at all, if you could've maintained any ounce of control over the waves that drowned you-- you could still have him. It wouldn't be in the way you want, it wouldn't be enough, but it wouldn't be _this_. You could survive that sort of pain, present stabbing pain-- This emptiness is what you can't stand. You think, very desperately, about reaching out to him after he's gone, telling him you would change things if you could, you would've been better. You doubt he would listen. He most definitely hates you now that he had time away from you (which was something you didn't want to think about, that all he would need to hate you was some time to himself).

After that first time, after you felt full off his flesh and bones, Sam had unapologetically started resenting you, it was clear in the way he dragged himself around the motel, the faces he made at you. You had ripped out his core, his innocence, and he was so very obviously lost without it. He became the thing haunting the building. And when you left that motel, your dad having dragged himself back from his case after days missing, Sam couldn't stand to look at you. He curled up in the backseat and kept his eyes closed. It turned all the water in your lungs to a thick poison. You wished to choke more than you ever had before, you wished to turn up in a ditch outside the interstate unidentifiable, you wished to be buried somewhere far away so Sam would never have to think about you again.

He kept shifting in his seat on the drive to the next motel. And you knew how fucked it was to want to protect him after becoming the monster under his bed, but because you couldn't help yourself (you never could), you thought about collecting his hurt in your chest and letting it grow tumors on your ribcage. Tumors grew regardless, but instead of forming in the shape of flowers, (or some other beautiful thing that Sam's pain must've been in the form of) they grew in bulbous, ugly ways, up your windpipe and up the back of your throat. You could hardly speak to him. He stopped speaking entirely. Stopped pushing himself into your view, stopped pushing for more. That was the only good thing to come out of hurting him-- At least he wasn't making it worse.

And it should've become a thing you both ignored. But you grew hungry again. You became nothing but teeth, mouth wide, waiting for the next opportunity to rip his throat out, soak yourself in his blood. You would never be completely satisfied. Monsters didn't stop after their first kill, it was an unspoken rule of hunting. Sam must've seen it in your eyes. He must've seen the glint of starvation, the hollows in your cheeks, the circles under your eyes. You hated, then and now, how scared he looked, how fully you robbed him of the hero he once saw in you.

The hunger, as it was wont to do, became far too much to tolerate. And so it happened again. Another gut-beautiful tableau. Sam was bent over the side of the bed that time, his hands tied up properly, (though you had thought about them being cut off, strung up and hanged on the door like a pair of shoes) and he was crying. He always cried his way through it-- Small sobs and muffled pleads. You hated yourself more with every compelled giving, emptying into him, leaving him to clean up the mess you made.

And then-- Maybe you finally broke him. Maybe, after years of skating your eyes down his pulse, after trying to track every blood vessel under his skin, trying to find out how they were spit and sputter if they were torn open, after feeling so full of teeth and gnashing-- Maybe he finally saw the force that pushed you forward, understood it. He started _giving in_. 

It would go like this: Sam would spot the hunger before you felt the pangs of it. He would tilt his head back, offer a small moan as he stretched, put his arm around you, (and you would feel like shit, which didn't make it any better but meant that least you weren't going fucking insane) (you were definitely going insane) and when the heavens were closed and the world was dark, he would kiss you. He was shy and flushed from his cheeks to his thighs, but he would let you in. He still cried, oceans pouring from his eyes, but he would say your name and you would say his, and you would wonder if it was some sort of Stockholm Syndrome keeping him in place (but then you would stop wondering all together because Sam was under you whining like you had just hit something _right_ ). The next morning he would be smiling. 

That's when you really thought someone or something would smite you were you stood-- Sam smiling over being fucking raw by his big brother-- Sam, freckles and newfound body, _giddy_ that he had been full of his brother's cock the night before, full of _your cock_ the night before. You had, for a fact, broken him. 

At least he stopped looking at you with that gleam of terror behind his eyes. At least he didn't hate you-- No, he didn't hate you. You started to doubt that he ever did. You started to think that he hated how fast you went, hated that you had no self-control, didn't hate _you_ , because you found it hard to reconcile hate with the way he started talking. 

God, Sam had the worst mouth you had ever heard. You weren't sure where he had learned the word _cock_ and _fuck_ and _whore_ but he sure knew how to use them. Started asking you if he could suck your cock, (the exact words being more forceful, uglier, and you hated them coming from his pretty mouth but you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you harder than anything) and you became some sort of fucking guide, telling _him_ to slow down. Which was ultimately useless.

You fucked your brother's throat four days after he first asked. And it was heaven, if heaven was full of pleasure-masked delusion. Your heaven, whenever you thought of it (which was rarely), always had some version of Sammy just like this-- On his knees, mouth open, covered in his own spit, covered in _your_ cum. 

Your heaven, however, did not include your dad barging in, covered in blood and dirt, shocked-stupid face. It did not include you getting the shit kicked out of you, though you couldn't say you didn't deserve it (you deserve much worse). You thought a lot about what you deserve. A lot of the time it was death.

In the right motels, where the mattress smells like smoke and sweat, you can still hear the pitch in Sam's voice as he begged Dad to get off you. It was so unlike the way he begged before, when you were on top of him, and he was crying, and you were falling into pieces. Nothing before had made you wanna see your dad dead more than him making Sam cry like that-- And you were out of your mind on whatever sort of drug Sammy was-- You didn't remember putting your hands around your dad's throat, but they were bleeding and squeezing hard (you would never choke Sammy like this, you would never). And Sam is screaming, and you're the reason why, so you lunge backwards, your ears full of your dad choking (you did that) and Sam crying ( _you did that_ ). 

Sam's out of the door as fast as his feet can take him, shouting about being done with this, sounding angry, and sad, and hurt, and it's _all your fault_. And just when it can't get worse, he's looking back at you, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, leaking moths and half-dead things, his mouth open, spit wiped off. And he had a sort of sorry look in his eye. He sees you for what you are and he doesn't like it. He leaves. You're crying.

Your dad doesn't look at you for weeks after. Your dad stops looking at you. You follow him to the next case, the next motel. He doesn't let you hunt with him. So you sit in bed, the other one empty, and you stare at the ceiling hoping for the roof to cave in, feeling nothing but the overwhelming ache in your chest and arms, weighed down but still, unfortunately, attached. 

You dig through your bags hoping to find some shred of Sam left in them, because there's no way you can survive without him. You never really believed he would wind up leaving, and now that he has it's too much, too fast. You find yourself blaming your dad instead of yourself. You find an unused condom and a Nirvana tape, nothing to play it on. You break it. You take the condom and tuck it in your wallet. 

You jerk off alone, mumbling Sam's name under your breath. You think about the edge of his jaw, you think about the way his eyes flutter open, you think about his stomach, how your cum looked liked pearls when it streaked down his skin, how you had stopped thinking of him dead and buried, stopped thinking about tearing him apart when you saw him like that-- so presently and awfully alive. 

There's no one to stop you from thinking about him, and frankly, you don't care anymore and being Good. You spent so long being wound up and desperate-- You spent so long trying to hide it from everyone, including yourself, that you don't care anymore. There's something _rotting_ inside you and you lap at the edges of the wound. You are rotting, disgusting, and it's fine. You can't stop it now. 

Your dad doesn't come back the next day, or the day after that. You've run out of cash and there's only so much you can get out of chicks' wallets while they sleep before you get caught (before you have to start thinking about what it means that you care more about their money than the body they're offering to you). You start trying to pickpocket old men. You start watching porn online.

At first, it's nothing you wouldn't find on every other straight guy's computer. And you're kinda grateful to have to room to yourself. You don't worry about headphones, you don't worry about biting your lip to keep from saying your brother's name (even though he left you, and you should be more torn up about it, you should turn on him-- you could never turn on him). And then, a week since you've last seen your dad, you scroll to the other side of the porn site. 

Boys spreading themselves out in front of their shitty webcams, biting sugar-pink lips. Candied-cherry lips. _Fuck_ . you shut the laptop. Ten seconds later you're opening it back up. You start the first video without even touching your cock. It looks nothing like Sam, this boy looks _stronger_ , more toned, more in control. He uses his hands (Sam barely knows how to jack off-- you know because you've seen him try-- he ruts against a pillow like a girl). You can't watch the rest of it. 

Thoughts of Sam, weighty and terrible, settle in your chest, make all your joints ache. You feel impossibly pathetic sitting there with your dick out, scanning over various thumbnails of boys who look nothing like Sam, until-- Thin, awkward limbs, strawberry lips between teeth, that blush that you know so well, a blush that makes you think of blood and beating, a figure of death, a fountain of youth. You can't help but think it's some sort of message for you, you can't help but think that Sam's life is as ordered around you as yours is around him.

Surely, this is you going insane. Surely, this is the part where you open your eyes and you're actually in a coffin, maggots around your hands, dirt down your throat. This is the ditch, and you're desperately trying to dig out of it by thinking of the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. But even if this isn't real, you want to see what death is providing you. You want to see what's hidden behind this door. So you click on the video. 

It's not even a minute long, and the lightning is shit, and all you can really see is teeth, and lips, and hands (fingernails painted a candy red-- _christ_ ). But they're yours. You can recognize the slope of the lips, the way they flair into a shy smile, the mannerisms in the fingers. It doesn't matter if it's real, you think, it doesn't matter if this is a dying vision or a projection onto a boy you've never met, or if it's actually him. If this is your return to Sam. All you know is how hard your cock is in your hand.

You imagine this is how resurrection must feel. Emerging from the cave, seeing the light, being blinded. 

There's no way this is worse than leaving Sam in a pile of his own flesh, crying and tugging at the sheets (trying to pull himself out of the filth). You knew every time that you were bending and breaking him, sending cracks up his spine, turning him into the same sort of alcohol-sting traumatized that you were, you were sending him closer into this sort of thing. It wasn't hard to imagine that Sam, post-break, would do this. Or, it wasn't hard to imagine when you were coming into your hand, images of Sam already in your head.

You play the video again, turn up the volume, try to catch every stray sigh and moan-- Because if this is Sam, if by some curse or blessing this turned out to be the very boy you couldn't keep your hands off of (the boy you were damned for), you wanted everything he was giving you. You play the video again, and again. Your eyes sting and you're sure you've combed over every single haunting pixel. You play it one more time for good measure. 

You fall into bed with that pit in your chest, a black hole in your heart sucking everything down. You wouldn't mind dying right now. Not a wish or a request, but a recognition. You wouldn't mind dying thinking about Sam fumbling over himself on camera, being so desperate and so beyond redemption (salvation, resurrection) that he was willing to post something like that to the internet. 

You don't click on the username (you don't even remember it). If the image shattered, you would be left with nothing but decimated plastic and unused rubber. You'd be left to reckon with the exact rot that ruined your life, be left with the knowledge that Sam never looked back, washed the mess off his face, and left all the memories (and eventual desires) buried. And if that's what happened then that means it wasn't _folie_ _à deux_ but a madness entirely of your own making. That would mean it wasn't your blood, or your lack of baptism, or your dad's whiskey. It was all you. 

You dream about Sam in some perfect pink room, you dream about Sam as a girl, you dream about Sam as anyone besides your brother. You dream about the roof caving in, water falling from the sky. You dream about your body no longer belonging to you, covered in someone else's vomit. You wake up in a pile of your own. 

Your dad still isn't back. You clean up the mess. You wait for him. You become a living sigh, a mass of sick-soaked breath, scar tissue, and bleeding. You feel like your head's been cracked on the sidewalk (regretfully, it hasn't). The motel sheets scratch against your arms, you welcome the feeling. You spend the day wrapped up inside them, having hangover visions of Sam in a skirt, visions of Sam's fingers running up your thigh, a knowing look on his face. He would know, in whatever sort of heaven or hell this was, he would know _exactly_ what he was doing. And in the same way that this demented version of Sam would know all the thoughts in your head, you know that this _rot_ , this wound will never leave you. Like incense haunts churches, you will be haunted for the rest of your life. 

You vomit again before the day is over. You don't bother to clean it up. You're pretty sure your dad is never coming back, and you're pretty sure he's dead, and you're pretty sure you don't care all that much. Blood only matters when it's alive. Dead tissue holds no sentiment-- Maybe Sam got into an accident on whatever bus he took or car he stole. Maybe all that's left of him is dead tissue, blood and guts that would taste different licked up from gravel. Sam would taste different as roadkill. You fall asleep again thinking of Sam with his guts hanging out of his body.

When you're awake again, it's dark. Your phone is ringing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi im diseased 
> 
> please do leave kudos and comments !! <3


	3. i'll show you how you're doing it wrong

**_"For I desire mercy and not sacrifice, And the knowledge of God more than burnt offerings." Hosea 6:6_ **

You show up at Sam's dorm in the middle of the night, still smelling like vomit, still tasting sour. The school year is just starting, and you can feel the air buzz with the awkwardness of new places, slick and not yet molded to the shape of the people living there. It took a minimal amount of research to find where the freshmen dorms are, and you asked some girl, blonde, skinny, if she knew a Winchester. You're surprised she even gave you an answer looking how you did.

And now you're standing outside the door you're pretty sure belongs to Sam. You kinda regret not taking a shower. You kinda regret not killing yourself when you had the chance. You think briefly about killing yourself right here. You have your dad's gun in your waistband. It would be almost fitting, almost polite to present yourself at Sam's door like a dead bird, blood blown out on the walls. He would find you and that would be it. He'd have his closure. 

You raise your hand to knock, but you figure you can't show up like _this_ with a knock. Maggots don't knock before they enter coffins. So you turn the knob, and it's open, and you have to see that as some sort of sign from whatever demon is possessing you. Whatever daemon is on your shoulder, whispering in your ear. 

All you can see are beds, mounds of bodies on each one. All you can think about is your blood soaking the carpet. Sam is a light sleeper, surely he-- You hear a voice, a question. A light flicks on and Sam-- god, it's already so much to see him like this, it reminds you too completely of the nights you spent making him cry-- He looks up at you, eyes squinted. He's not the only body in his bed. She's blonde and pretty, and you wonder when Sam started being fascinated by pretty things, and you wonder when Sam started thinking about someone other than you. 

He says your name, and you say his, and it's like before, except it's nothing like it. There's a witness, there's no bile, no acid. Sam's eyes are dry, no circles under them. You feel like an invasion just by being here, you feel like there's no way for you to belong in his world. You don't know how to say Dad's missing, because family is such a distant feeling. All you can feel is the blood in your arms, the way your fingernails are digging into your palms. All you can feel is the way Sam is looking at you-- Like you actually _have_ hurt him, killed him, like you've betrayed him by being alive. 

You clear your throat. You say something, though you're not sure what it is even as it comes out of your mouth. And that girl is looking at you like you've vomited all over their floor, and you feel like you just might. You wonder how much Sam has told her, if he's gotten drunk and let spill all the ways he held himself open for you, let you spread your sickness inside his body. It terrifies you, the idea of Sam telling someone else, talking about it in tragic, crumbling ways, like he's haunted. You think about being the thing that haunts him. You might just shoot yourself, spray blood on his walls, make him scrub it off. 

You realize that no matter how haunted you are by Sam, he was able to leave. The thought  _ guts _ you. You stand there feeling like you're still drunk, swaying, and  _ sick _ , and disturbed (maybe if you had been baptized; maybe if you had just died while being born). You vomit again, all bile. Sam is saying your name, but your vision is going, you're withering. Fucking stupid to think Sam could ever love you when you're not even sure what you feel for him is love. You want to show that girl, blonde and fucking pretty, how you can make Sam fall apart around your fingers, how well he takes your cock, how he whispers curses (which might as well be prayers) and filth from his unrelentingly beautiful lips. You must love him, there's no other word for it, and your love must be far grander and far more lasting than whatever this bitch thinks about Sam. 

You open your eyes. Sam's hands are on your face and you think about kissing him, you think about killing him out of jealousy, snuffing out his cherry-pink life right in front of his little girlfriend. She doesn't know  _ shit _ about him, even if she thinks she does. You and Sam are  _ blood _ , full blood, you know every strand of DNA in his cell walls, you know the way he looks when he's trying to get his mouth around you, the way he looks when he's scared of you-- You know  _ everything _ about this boy. She doesn't deserve him. 

All you see is his face. He's so close to you that you can see every twitch in his expression, every speck of terror and worry. You hope he's worried about your well-being more than his own, which is such a selfish thought you almost push it away immediately upon thinking it. But, you hear that daemon say, haven't you _earned_ the right to be a bit selfish? Haven't you _toiled_ and _worried_ enough? Haven't you stopped caring about morals and ethics and all the sticky, unpleasant parts of being alive? Don't you wanna roll around in the mud, cover yourself in someone else's spit and vomit? Isn't that what you're dreaming about?

You look up at Sam through wide, newly opened eyes. You see him, terrified and conflicted, just a boy who shouldn't have to deal with so much, just a boy who got dealt a shitty, selfish,  _ rotten  _ brother. You kiss him. You think of the boy you saw on the screen. They become one and the same.

You can feel his lips twitch, you can feel his hands on your shirt, gripping tight, holding you still. He must hate you. He could never hate you. You find it hard to reconcile the feeling of hate with the way he returns the kiss so greedily, like he regrets leaving-- And you want to believe that he regrets leaving. 

The girl must be gone. You two are alone for the first time in an impossibly long time. You think about the condom in your wallet. If you were to fuck Sam right here on his dorm floor, you wouldn't use it. You would fuck him raw, let him know that he can't ever leave you again-- not without promising to come back. 

Your hands are in his hair and you feel a lot calmer (rabid and ruined at the same time), you feel essentially human again. Your mouth becomes soft and warm instead of chapped and deathly blue. Sweet instead of vomit-sour. Sam's the one that pulls away, rests his forehead on your chest, says you shouldn't  _ be here _ , Jesus  _ Christ _ , Dean. He's trying hard to be normal. You refuse to let him believe that he is in any way free from sin. He never will be. You reached into him and stuck dirt where there should be wine and water, you reached in and slashed holes in his heart so he could never live without you. He  _ can't _ leave. Even if he  _ did _ . He will never be rid of you, you won't let him be. If you don't belong in his world, you'll force your way in.

You kiss him again, angry, and hungry, and dying. You kiss him as if you've never kissed before, all sharp teeth and fat tongue pushing into his mouth, licking the back of his throat, as if you could climb into him mouth first. You ignore his teeth which bite you, you ignore the way he hits your arm, the way he kicks as you climb on top of him. His hands find your chest and push, but not with his full strength, and he doesn't fight when you spread his legs open, when your hand finds his cock hard in his boxers. You know this kid, you know  _ him _ , and his  _ signals _ , and his ways of getting you off him versus his ways of egging you on. You can feel tears pooling between your faces, and it doesn't slow you down in the least.

It becomes less and less about you and your own satisfaction, more and more about forcing  _ him _ to enjoy it, to feel the twist of pleasure that exists in pain, to understand the exact way he haunts you. To understand that he has ways of letting you know he wants it. He keeps sobbing as he says your name, he keeps digging his fingernails into your arm-- but, perfectly in line with his patterns, he sinks into you eventually, clings to you as a choked sound escapes him. You can feel the way his chest heaves against you, the way his breath falls out of his mouth in thick, crying ways. An angel forcibly cast out. Suppose that makes you God. Or the devil. 

You want to hold his face, pull him on top of you, see if he remembers how to swallow your cock. You don't. You pull away, your back against his caved-in twin bed. It hurts, but you've stopped shying away from pain, you've stopped taking it as a sign of your corrosion, a burning scarlet letter in the sky of your chest. Pain-- with Sam gasping a few feet away from you, covered in his own cum, covered in your sweat (and probably your vomit, and spit, and grease)-- Pain is the lace decorating the edges of pleasure. They exist on opposing faces of the same coin. It's not about what you  _ deserve _ , it's about how much you can handle, how much you can hold before all your bones break. 

You tell Sam that wasn't the reason you came here. He doesn't look at you. You ask if you can use his shower. He nods. 

He has a cramped sort of bathroom, but it's neat and clean, lit in cold, sterile lighting. Filth hasn't spread here the way it's spread all over the motels you grew up in. You're almost happy for him, but you know that by being here, you're spreading your own rot. You step into the shower and you're surprised when your skin doesn't debride onto the tile, leaving damaged tissue in its wake. You're surprised when the shower doesn't overflow and drown you, doesn't burn you down to your bones. You wonder if that means you'll never get over your guilt. 

You hear a knock, one you're sure the dead make on their pine (if both of you were dead, so be it). Sam leaves clothes next to the door, pointedly looking away from you. You've stopped feeling hurt by the way he steps around you. He always ends up giving in, and in the meantime, he'll let you have him whenever you'd like. Or, you take him whenever you'd like and he won't cause a fuss afterwards. Same difference. 

You step into the clothes he's offered you, one of your old band tour tees and sweatpants that might also have been yours at some point (Sam had a habit of stealing your clothes, so you wound up letting him have whatever he wanted). You wonder what all exactly he has of yours. You think about the condom in your wallet, the broken Nirvana tape you left in the motel. You think about bonds made manifest. 

You wear clothes that don't belong to you anymore but still fit you. Sam's sitting on his bed, reading some massive tome under a small adjustable lamp. He looks clean and put together, now wearing a shirt and a different pair of boxers. He looks up at you, and it's not hateful. He sees you, and he doesn't look disgusted, and you feel like a weight's been lifted off your chest. You breathe. 

You tell him about the phone call and the coordinates. You thank him for the clothes. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, and you think about taking him again, laying claim to his barely healed body, leaving permanent bruises and sores. You don't think you have the appetite. You're exhausted. 

He tells you about the girl that slept in his bed, how she's in some of his classes and she's  _ so nice _ , and she doesn't ask a lot of questions. He tells you about his roommate who promptly stepped over your corpse on his way to the shower, either blind or willfully ignorant. You realize that those are the only kind of people Sam could ever be around, people who shrug their shoulders and find prying too much effort. He says he feels normal here. 

It starts to make you feel normal too. For a moment, anyway. Sam's voice is soft and sweet, and he doesn't hate you (surely, he wouldn't be saying any of this to you if he hated you, wouldn't look at you like that if he hated you), and you can't help but feel absolved. 

He's quiet for a moment, then asks if maybe Dad's hunt is just taking a little while longer than normal, maybe you're just on edge because of-- Well, everything. You end up convincing him to come along, just to see, just to make sure. And he's packing his things in the same duffle bag he took when he left. He throws in a picture of that girl. You push your clawing jealousy down because you want to bask a little longer in the image of Sam following you again.

You two climb into the Impala, first time being alone together in the front seats. You think about all of the possibilities. You think of breaking Sam in in the backseat, over the hood or the trunk, you think of hiding his body-- Thoughts of hurting him don't hit you as hard as they used to. You let them pass over you like an eclipse. You start the car. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh very weird experience to post these as i finish them (as opposed to posting once i have the whole fic done). this is also a shorter chapter but i think that's fine considering what happens in it, lol. i think i have one more in me before i wrap this all up :) 
> 
> please do leave kudos, comments, etc.! they make my day <3


	4. save me, even as you break me

**_"Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers dwell in unity!" Psalm 133:1_ **

You and Sam are in your dad's car. Sam's holding the map under the overhead light, the pinks in his face coming out in a way that makes you wanna peel his skin back and shove it down your throat. You haven't found your dad yet, and you're not sure you ever will, but Sam's left behind his university life for you. And sure, it's because his girlfriend burned to ash, sure it's because there's nowhere left for him to go that doesn't have some monster lurking in the closet. Sure, you had to force him into the car. Sam's used to you taking charge. It counts.

You drive along stretched asphalt, across grainy gravel, stop in small towns at small diners. You find the next haunted corner, the next affected family, the next monster that needs its heart ripped out. Sam sulks out the window a lot. You try and crack jokes. You two don't talk about the trauma hanging in the air like flies. You stay in small motels and you take Sam whenever you like (and you stop apologizing). You pin his arms behind his back when he steps out of the shower, paw at him while he sleeps. There's no threat around the corner to stop you and Sam hasn't killed you yet. Sam becomes a travel log, a new mark for every town you drive through.

You rent rooms with two beds but only ever use one. You fall asleep on top of the comforter with your shoes on, Sam feels safe enough, or so you like to think, that he sleeps wearing just one of your old t-shirts. When it's dark, you start running your hands along his side, wrapping your hand around his throat. You push his face into the mattress on the nights you can't help yourself. And he starts smiling again in the mornings after. He starts leaning his head on your shoulder in the car, grabbing your arm, holding your hand. It dawns on you that you never lost him, he never left. He was taken from you, but now he's returned. He stops sulking in the car.

He talks about his handful of weeks spent on his own, always while the sun starts to come up and spread out across the motel carpet. He whispers once he thinks you're asleep, secrets you'll hold close and never tell anyone, secrets about dad and how he doesn't really hope to find him, how he wants to just keep driving until the road runs out, until you two fall off a cliff together. You can't think of anything you want more. He talks about nights he spent at the local college bar, nights he spent in other girls' beds. He doesn't talk about Jess. He stops talking about girls. 

The sky is a pale yellow on the morning he mentions a boy that supposedly looks like you. He tells you how this boy's hand brushed against the small of his back. He says he liked it, that it made him think of you-- you and your bleeding hands. Sam tells you that he went home with this boy, let himself be undressed, laid out on a stranger's sheets. Sam let him press his mouth (surely full of teeth) against the soft slope of his stomach. Sam says he left marks just like you do. He tells you about the words that fell out of this boy's mouth, how he talked about _using_ Sam, about _filling him up_. He says he thought about you the entire time, he thought about how you don't talk about it-- You think about it until it builds up behind your ribs, behind your eyes, and then you just _do it._ You grab him, you push him down, you take his clothes and his lungs like he could never own anything, even if it was attached to hin. 

He says that's more exciting. You should probably feel horrified. 

You think about pulling his hair, sinking your teeth into his neck. He says he _likes_ it, being used, more than he likes talking about it. He likes that you aren't asking him questions along the way. He says he knows you'd never damage him on purpose. You can't believe how wrong he is. 

He turns around in your arms, holds your face in his hands. In the sunlight, his eyes are pale, his skin is _alive_ , and he has a calm, almost hypnotized look on his face. Your first thought is to show him exactly _how wrong_ he is, show him that you are perfectly capable of hurting him, of smothering yourself in tattered remains of flesh and bone, especially if they're his. He's seen what you're capable of on hunts. He must not see himself as a monster (he isn't one). 

But he'll probably enjoy any attempts at breaking him-- The thought of actually being correct about his signals and signs makes you wanna break your neck but in a very particular kind of way. The way poets want to look at sunsets. You think it would be very satisfying, fulfilling to die having heard that _Sam Winchester enjoys being raped by his older brother_. And that he can admit to it. That this whole time, as you were clawing and scratching away at yourself, as you were thinking of yourself as a singular sort of fucked up, Sam was thinking about you forcing yourself inside him just as often-- That he was thinking about it _while with someone else_.

You feel free. Sam kisses you. You feel free. 

He doesn't touch you, so you touch him, and when he pulls away, you know _exactly_ what that means. You slot into your place with the highest level of ease. You consume him whole, dislocate your jaw, leave bite marks over his neck, shoulders-- You push him back onto the bed with both your hands, hold his face, one hand wrapping around his throat, and you think about finally killing him. You think about how much force it would take to crush his windpipe. And you feel completely unburdened. Guilt is so far in the background you wonder if it's even something that can be felt-- Sam is so present you wonder how anyone could live without him (and his desire, his want to be ruined) (he _wanted_ to be ruined; he _liked_ you ruining him). 

You don't know exactly what it counts as, acting like he doesn't want something you both know he does. You don't know where you stand morally, but Sam's under you, bright pink cheeks, pink lips, pink hands pulling at your arm (scratching, bleeding, digging-- you revel in the sting). He's kissing you; his mouth moves against yours like it's separate from the rest of his body, his brain. He says your name into your mouth, and it's so pathetic and scared you almost question what you're doing (but the hunger is too present now, you couldn't stop even if you wanted to-- he must know that). 

You can feel tears form in the corner of his eyes as you squeeze the sides of his neck harder, can see the flush in his face turn into something much uglier. You pull his boxers down, and even though you've seen him like this a thousand times before, this is something special. He practically handed himself over, practically made a guide for your temptation to follow. You aren't the devil in this situation. 

He struggles through a gasp when you shove a finger inside him, then another-- You reconnect with your own primal pleasure that stems from seeing him strain against you (he's definitely crying now, reaching his neck up, trying to move away from you). He's so _loud_ this time around, making all sorts of completely obscene noises, like he had been holding himself back all the times before. 

You hold him by his hair, guide his mouth onto your fingers. Spit mixes with salt, and you think about running your tongue across his face, you think about letting strings of pearls fall onto his cheeks. He gags. Driven by every midnight fantasy you've ever had of hurting him, you strike him across the cheek. You don't recognize yourself as you do it, but you feel some kind of familiarity with whatever is in control of you-- This was your daemon, your pit, your blood. It was always going to end up like this. You looking at Sammy with tears in his eyes, proud of being the one that put them there.

You pull his head forward against the front of your jeans until all he can do is close his eyes and pant against you. He's a complete mess, half his face a bright, horrible red, the other half consumed in a blush. He manages to look so shy, even like this, even when he looks up at you and you can see a clear glint in his eye saying he enjoys it. He missed this. 

You keep a hand on the top of his head as you pull your cock out, as he keeps his mouth shut tight. A flame of anger (frustration, rage, blooming indignity) laps up your chest, into your arms. You yank his head back, nearly pulling his hair out. His hair is soft, your hands are rough. You want to shove them both down his throat and watch him choke. You push him back instead, head hanging upside down over the foot of the bed. 

You stand in front of him and hold his mouth open. You think about the time he begged you for this, begged to gag on your cock, begged to be fucked like this, and you felt so absolutely mortified, horrified that you had taken the last remaining shred of innocence from your baby brother. It feels like centuries ago. You understand now that there was nothing you could've done-- Both of you, cursed with your spoiled blood, cursed with family members that either burn up or go missing-- Both of you were meant for something like this, something equally as horrifying.

He still knows how to take you. His mouth is soft, and sweet, his teeth are dull. You will never get over the feeling of him moaning around you, the look of cum decorating his face. You're not sure where everything stands, now that the curtain has been drawn up and you both know that he enjoys this. You wonder if it'll ruin it. You find that you don't care all that much-- Sam offering himself to you is a thrill all on its own. You can see all the ways he's offered himself to you before. You think about blood.

You think of the boy behind the screen, shitty lighting, painted nails. Sam's nails are bare, his fingers now around his cock. You tell him to sit still. He's incredibly obedient. 

You grab his laptop, navigate almost by muscle memory to the video you've seen countless times, the faceless boy you sewed Sam's face onto. You hope it's a magic trick, that by filling the gaps with clay you've actually solved the puzzle. You turn up the volume. You lay it on the bed. Sam immediately springs up off his back, staring wide-eyed at the pixels, now in the exact shape he's in right in front of you. You can't help but grin, wide enough for him to see your canines as he looks back at you. 

Sam Winchester, not only a whore in cheap motel rooms with his brother, or at bars with men who looked like his brother, but online in front of who knows how many strangers. An attention whore. Yours. You shut the laptop. 

He's stock-still as you sit behind him, pulling him back against your chest. Your hands find his cock, aching. The first time you watched him jack off, he was so awkward and fragile, you could never have imagined him pointing a camera at it. Even having _seen_ the video and his reaction to it, it's hard to believe that Sam posted it. He tells you he usually didn't do pre-recorded videos-- He found it easier to do live shows, pretend all the gross, grubby men in the chat were you-- Quickly fumbling over an apology, he assures you that he doesn't think you were gross. You want to kiss him. So you turn his head and do so. Because you could, he's yours.

One day you would ask him more about it. But tonight you had your hand around him, and he was whispering a string of apologies and explanations, and it was clear that none of this was one-sided. Sam haunted you, yes, but he would be lost without you. He would be in seedy bars with creepy men, would be online showing his ass to strangers. At least when he was right here, under your hands, he was safe. 

It goes like this: Sam smells your hunger before you feel the pangs of it. He stretches, says he’s tired and wants to sleep in a real bed for a couple hours. You rent the cheapest and closest motel you can find. He takes your shoes off. He kisses you, a flower that only opens at night, when the doors are closed, when no one can see his underbelly. His lips taste like whiskey and you wonder if he’s stealing yours. He has a habit of stealing your clothes. He has a habit of lying. 

You wonder how water turned into whiskey, how poison turned into nectar. You think about Sammy being an agent of metamorphosis. He kisses you, and he’s so glad to do it that you wonder how long he’s been offering himself to you while you were so wrapped up in your head. You try desperately to get out of your head. 

It goes like this: You’re in the car with your brother. He’s holding the map in his hand, but you both have nowhere to go. You’re mistaken for a couple at the diner. You laugh, Sam smiles. You take a seat at the bar. The last case was long and you want nothing more than to have somewhere permanent to stay, but Sam is next to you, eating something unamerican. He looks over at you as you scan the local newspaper. He cracks a joke. Guilt is something so far away you wonder if you should admit yourself to a mental hospital for feeling it. 

It goes like this: Sam deletes the video. Sam says you’re all he has. Sam says you’re his big brother and he doesn't hesitate in saying it. He says you’re his soulmate in the same breath. He says he’d take a bullet for you, sell his soul for you, and you hope you never find your dad (he’ll be so disappointed in the two of you). 

It goes like this: You and Sam are on the road. And that’s normal. You fuck him in seedy motels, you hunt monsters, you tell him he’s all you have, and it’s normal. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting kinda early, whoops. i finished most of this chapter last night before i went to bed and woke up early to finish and format it and all that. i'm incredibly happy about the verse for this chapter. idk if anyone would be interested, but i have a playlist for songs i listened to while i was writing (since it took a lot of immersion to write from this kind of perspective lol). i'll link it below
> 
> this is the first time I've posted a fic as i finished it, and it's almost surreal, lmao. it's really weird to read comments wondering where the fic is going when I'm not even really sure myself. i hope it wasn't too noticeable tho. 
> 
> usually in end notes like this, i write about how much this fic means to me, but really this fic was an exercise in letting my writing breathe, in letting myself write gross things, which is what i made this account for. hope if you like this sort of thing that you keep an eye out for whatever i write next <3
> 
> thank you to everyone who commented, kudos, etc.! really pushed me to finish this <3 and thank you to everyone on twitter who engaged with this nonsense 
> 
> playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3dk81OeWEYpdg7L0E75GsH?si=hJA6hlySSuueaTitc1UMmg
> 
> also uh the final word count being 10,666 was entirely unintentional but... holy shit? lmfao


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